Blur
by Kelly1
Summary: "A flash of grey; blur / Watch my love go down in flames / My soul lies broken." Dark post-DOR Lietro fic. Lance's POV.


Totally and utterly pointless Lietro. My third slash fic, I'm still kinda getting the hang of this . . .be nice. Ugh, it's really uber-angsty . . . why must all the Pietrance I write be so darn depressing? My Evietro was all happy and perky but this and "Dragons and Dung-Beetles" is so . . . blegh. I blame it on reading too much Anne Rice (though she is a killer author, I just started "The Vampire Lestat." I think all this awesome vampire stuff might be warping my brain though.) This took only an hour or so to write so . . . well, excuse the craptacularness. I apologize beforehand. I like the haiku at the beginning though . . .  
  
Blur  
  
"A flash of grey; blur  
Watch my love go down in flames  
My soul lies broken."   
  
Lance's laugh carried bitterly on the wind, the cold fall rain drenching the small scrap of paper and making the ink run. He stared numbly at the rubble, his dark shirt soaked and clinging to his chest. It didn't matter anymore.   
  
He leaned forward onto the railing of the bridge, the rain driving it's frigid needles across his unshaven face. He hadn't showered in days, hadn't even slept since he'd watched all he'd come to believe in get thrown back in his face. Was Pietro still alive? The boy he loved and loathed from the depths of his heart now haunted his waking thoughts.  
  
Lance released the poem from his clenched fist, sighing as the white paper flitted down in a choppy spiral. If only it were that easy; to let go of himself, to blow away in empty purposelessness , disappearing forever into the still, cold night. He swung his legs over the side of the bridge, the rail slick and black and menacing in the pale moonlight. Lance inhaled, the air stinging his lungs. It wouldn't be long now. The harsh glow of the street lights only succeeded in deepening the gray shadows which crept over his face. 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . the cars whipping by below, sending up sprays of filthy water onto the desolate sidewalk . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . the dull throbbing of his tense, weary muscles as he prepared for his own spiraling descent . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . The sound of sobbing reverberating through his ears. His tears? No time to think about that now . . . 3 . . .2 . . . the lithe, glowing preternatural figure standing amidst the fallen high-rise. Shocking silvery hair, feline-like stance - the backed arched gracefully and the eyes staring forward, watching the bridge . . . watching Lance.   
  
Lance's throat tightened. Was it really him? But oh he was too perfect, like a vision in a dream. The pale, alabaster skin giving off a faint light through the sheets of inky rain - a saint viewing the death of a martyr. Nothing more. So beautiful, so ironic - it made Lance want to weep. "Pietro!" His voice was choked, desperate. All the beautiful sustaining hatred melted from him, taking his strength with it. Lance's knees shook beneath him. "Please . . . I need you."   
  
He didn't move, could he even hear him? Was the weak and broken man Lance had become no longer enticing to him? But it was Pietro's fault he was like this - all his fault . . "Why Pietro? Why did you leave me?" That was what he needed to know before he did this, before he ended it all . . . And suddenly he was no longer on the bridge. The icy rain poured down heavier than before, and he was climbing . . . climbing to that shrine of the goodness of evil, the beauty of the loathsome . . . climbing until he stood so close that he himself was bathed in the pale light. And still his lover did not move, the eyes staring blankly forward. "Why?" Lance was crying now, kneeling at his feet. "I hate you. I hate that I love you. Why Pietro?" Nothing. No response, not even a glance. "Talk to me!"  
  
Lance threw his arms around the small motionless body, pressing his trembling lips violently against Pietro's, tasting the warm drops of rain which lingered there. Lance closed his eyes, surrendering to the impeccably saccharine kiss. But then all he tasted was the cold water, all he held was air. No faint light, no shrine . . . no Pietro. Lance sank to his knees, screaming at the wind in a feral chorus that rose from the depths of his stomach.   
  
There were no answers, no reasons to stay here. But he wouldn't go back up the bridge. There was too much left uncertain . . . Lance wrapped his arms protectively over his chest and began to walk home. He implored the darkness, his voice deadened "Pietro, wherever you are, I hope you know I still love you . . ."  
  
Lance failed to notice the figure hidden in the shadows. The figure who had followed him since he had left the boarding house. The figure that sat now, his head in his hands, praying that he hadn't driven the older boy to madness. "I do, Lance. And I'm so sorry . . ."  
  
~FIN~  
Kelly, li_luva_2000@yahoo.ca  
www.geocities.com/xpressionismx  
  
Woo, that was . . . um . . . disturbing. And short, ah well. At least P doesn't seem so evil . . . Thanks for wasting your time on lil' ol' me! ^_^ Season premiere tomorrow!!!! *dances in glee* Have a nice night!!! 


End file.
